seven
. . .
Beck
A weekin Gray's cabin, and I'm starting to forget what it feels like to be afraid. That's dangerous. Stockholm Syndrome, probably. But when his massive body curls around mine at night, when his gravelly voice calls me "baby girl," when his hands possess every inch of me—I can't remember why I should want to leave. I've spent my whole life invisible. Unwanted. Now I'm the center of someone's world, even if that someone is an obsessive, possessive bounty hunter who stalked me for weeks before claiming me as his own.
Rain lashes against the windows tonight, turning the forest into a dark blur beyond the glass. Gray has built a fire in the stone hearth, the flames casting dancing shadows across the living room. I'm curled on the couch in one of his flannel shirts—it's become a habit, wearing his clothes. They swallow me whole but smell like him. Like safety.
Gray sits on the floor by the hearth, cleaning his gun with meticulous precision. His hands move with practiced efficiency, those same hands that bruised my hips this morning when he took me against the kitchen counter. The contrast shouldfrighten me—the casual violence he's capable of, the tenderness he shows me.
"You're staring," he says without looking up, those keen hunter's senses always alert.
"Just thinking."
"About?" He reassembles the weapon with a series of soft clicks.
I draw my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. "How strange this is. A week ago, I was terrified of men like you. Now I'm..."
"Mine," he finishes, finally looking up. The firelight catches in his dark eyes, turning them to molten bronze.
I don't correct him. Can't correct him when my body responds to that single word with a flush of heat.
He sets the gun aside and moves to join me on the couch, his weight making the cushions dip so that I slide naturally against his side. His arm wraps around me, pulling me closer.
"You never talk about before," he says, his voice a low rumble I feel through his chest. "Your life. Before the bounty."
The question catches me off guard. Gray hasn't shown much interest in my past, only my present and future—specifically, a future with him.
"Not much to tell." I trace a pattern on his thigh, feeling the hard muscle beneath worn denim. "Pretty boring, really."
"Tell me anyway."
I look up, surprised by the genuine interest in his eyes. "Why?"
His hand finds my hair, stroking through the strands with surprising gentleness. "Because it made you who you are. Because it's part of you." His voice drops lower. "And everything about you matters to me."
The sincerity in those words breaks something open inside me—a door I've kept locked for years. And suddenly, I want to tell him. Want to share the lonely spaces that made me who I am.
"I grew up in foster care," I begin, the words feeling rusty, unused. "My mother died when I was six. Car accident. Father unknown, at least to the state."
His hand continues its gentle rhythm in my hair, encouraging without pushing.
"Seven different homes by the time I was sixteen. None terrible, but none that wanted to keep me either. I was just…passing through. A temporary responsibility." I swallow hard, old pain rising to the surface. "The last family had three biological kids. They forgot my birthday. Twice. Not because they were cruel, just because I wasn't really...real to them."
"You're real to me," Gray murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
The simple statement brings unexpected tears to my eyes. I blink them back quickly.
"I aged out of the system. Got a GED. Worked whatever jobs I could find—waitressing mostly. Was saving up for community college when the bounty mistake happened." I shrug, trying to make light of the lonely existence I've just described. "Told you. Boring."
Gray's arms tighten around me. "Not boring. Brave."
I laugh softly. "Running from town to town isn't brave."
"Surviving alone is." His hand tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his intense gaze. "Building a life when no one gave you the tools. That's fucking brave, baby girl."
The praise washes over me, warm and sweet. No one has ever looked at my unremarkable life and seen anything worth admiring. But Gray does. Gray sees me.
